


Just Close Your Eyes (No One Can Hurt You Now)

by lostandlonelybirds (RUNNFROMTHEAK)



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Forever Evil (Comics), Grayson (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: ALL the issues, AND HIS TRAUMA IS JUST AS VALID AS EVERYONE ELSE’S, Alternatively titled will I ever write something besides angst?, And this is also crack, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempt at Humor, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce Wayne is a mix in this fic, Catalina Flores is a piece of shit, Childhood Trauma, Crime-Syndicate (DCU), DC Comics References, DICK GRAYSON ACTUALLY DIED, Dick Grayson DID NOT fake his Death, Dick Grayson Has Issues, Dick Grayson Has Panic Attacks, Dick Grayson Has Secrets, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson Whump, Dick Grayson is Damian Wayne’s Parent, Dick Grayson-centric, Donna Troy fought me tooth and nail on hurting Dick, Donna Troy is a goddess, Flashbacks, GUYS I FOUND THE TAG, Gen, Good Friend Roy Harper, Hallucinations, Hurt Dick Grayson, I would lose it, If I were to have to find one more goddamn riddle for this goddamn fic, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insomnia, Insomniac Dick Grayson, Joker: Last Laugh references, Lex Luthor Being an Asshole, Lian Harper is a gift, My special blend of canon, No beta we die like Dick Grayson’s mental health, POV Roy Harper, Panic Attacks, Post-Forever Evil (Comics), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Jason Todd, Protective Tim Drake, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, References to Blockbuster's death, References to Grayson Comics, Repeat After Me, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, This is a mess of New 52 and Rebirth and pre-Flashpoint so don't come for my canon sweaty, Trauma, Triggers, Truth Serum, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Victim Blaming, Where you ignore everything you don't like, and everything you like is all you accept as canon, and no one can tell me otherwise, but he's also like, but still angst, ffs let the man spiral, in the past, is now a tag I can use, thank Donna, ya know?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22931074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RUNNFROMTHEAK/pseuds/lostandlonelybirds
Summary: ‘Today,’ Dick thinks to himself, ‘fucking sucks.’Damn him for being an optimist. He doesn't know why he bothers anymore.*Dick Grayson's spent so long running from his trauma that he doesn't know how to face it, especially when his family members are forced to confront some less than pretty truths about their Golden Boy's faked death.
Relationships: Catalina Flores/Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Cassandra Cain, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Donna Troy, Dick Grayson & Earth-3 Lois Lane, Dick Grayson & Edward Nygma, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Joker (DCU), Dick Grayson & Lex Luthor, Dick Grayson & Lian Harper, Dick Grayson & Roy Harper, Dick Grayson & Tim Drake, Roland Desmond & Dick Grayson
Comments: 385
Kudos: 1720





	1. i take my pills and i'm happy all the time (happy all the time)

**Author's Note:**

> I have no control. I am but a body for my muse. This was supposed to be Day 21 of Whumptober, but it hit 3000 words and I still had so much left to say, so I decided that this was the one-shot everyone asked for. I couldn't tag Unresolved emotional trauma, but there you go. Don't say I didn't warn you.  
> This... Is pretty bad. It talks about rape, Dick experiences vivid hallucinations, it deals with his death, Bruce's beatdown after his death, and loads of other things. Some of the dialogue that's in parentheses and centered is from the comics. I mainly draw dialogue from Nightwing #30, Forever Evil #1,2,6,7, Joker: Last Laugh, and the old Nightwing run with Blockbuster and Tarantu-bitch. I have a 12k word piece in beta right now dealing with RHAtO #25 in a way I wish canon would have given us, but meh. Gives me something to do I suppose.  
> Read the tags! Understand the tags! Some stuff can be triggering!!! Protect yourself!!!
> 
> Edit (11:22pm day of posting): I'm weak, okay? This was a one shot but you people wore me down, damnit. There will be a part two, after my other big work is dropped, and I'm going to be huffing over it the entire weekend. By the way, I'm looking at you dbakeiro!!!
> 
> (And Babs does not have a super prominent role in this because she pisses me off so much when Dick comes back to Gotham, and in order for me to not slaughter her characterization, I need to separate her from here.)
> 
> On an unrelated note, the ideal song for this fic is either Safe and Sound (you know which one I'm talking about) or Happy Pills by Weathers. Enjoy the tears, my lovely readers.

_‘Today_ ,’ Dick thinks to himself, ‘ _fucking sucks_.’

Damn him for being an optimist.

The day had started off the way his days always tend to – waking up in a cold sweat at 6 am (which means he'd managed a grand total of _three_ hours of sleep) with a scream clawing at his throat. He’d felt choked up, and no matter how much water he'd drank the pill ( _not pill, you don’t take pills anymore_ ) had remained firmly lodged in his throat. He'd managed to overcome the urge to scratch at his throat, because he’d done that last week until he’d bled, and any more neck bandages and Alfred will get suspicious ( _he’s okay, he’s safe, he has to be okay_ ). He’s already lied about fights with every criminal from Zsasz to the Joker to excuse the cuts ( _the crescent-shaped marks and imperfect bloody lines, vertical not horizontal, but he makes sure Alfred never looks too closely_ ) and with everyone back in Arkham, the excuse pool is severely limited. So he drinks as much water as he dares and throws on jogging pants, because his bed feels restricting, feels dirty and sweaty even if he hasn’t had anyone in his own bed for years. _He_ feels dirty, so he runs, as he does every morning around 6:15 am, he runs as fast as he can, faster than he should as he tries to leave the memories behind, tries to force the pill ( _not pill, it’s not a pill_ ) down his throat.

He'd ran this morning, and it had rained. He hates the rain, hates the way it sends him back to the worst moments in his life, hates how every darkened perch looks the same in the rain. He hates how he can’t tell the empty streets from the darkened circus tent, hates how he can so clearly see Cat— _Tarantula’s_ figure on every rooftop in Gotham ( _even if she isn’t in Gotham, Dick, you know better, you should know better_ ). He hates how he can’t separate the smell of rain from the smell of Tarantula’s perfume, can’t separate the smell of sewage floating in the overflowing gutters from the smell of the abandoned bunker he’d been held in, the bunker he’d… ( _you didn’t die, **I** didn’t die, just a few minutes, nothing more than a nap_).

He'd ran until he froze, until his limbs felt numb and his clothes ( _not suit, you aren’t in your suit, civilian clothes, not Nightwing_ ) were drenched. On some mornings he’ll know where he is, recognize the downtrodden Gotham street or alley, but this morning had _not_ been one of those mornings. He hadn’t known where he the hell he'd been, so he’d had to find a street sign and google directions back to his place. By the time he’d managed to get back to his place, it’d been around 8 am and he’d decided to give up and stay in for the day. Some days, he makes it to the Manor for breakfast, and sometimes he doesn't. He hasn’t been to the Manor since Tim’s dismissal (“ _You didn’t die, you just **lied**.”_) and Jason’s scorn ( _“You don’t **do** that to another… You don’t do that to another **Robin**!”_) and Barbara’s disappointment (“ _And to think I_ _had thought Dick Grayson couldn’t **disappoint me** any further.”_).

Dick avoids it as much as he can even if Dami’s there. Alfred… Alfred’s more understanding then the others, Dick isn’t sure if he’d seen the cave footage, if Bruce had told him that Dick had _actually_ ( _ ~~but not really~~_ ) died, but he’s more caring. He’ll take Damian to meet Dick if the others are around, or he’ll arrange for them to patrol together. He’s never looked at him with loathing or disappointment, never held Dick to these impossible standards he kills himself trying to reach…Dick doesn’t deserve Alfred, or Damian for that matter, but he’s grateful for them.

But this morning isn’t a morning he wants company, so he showers. He turns the water up until it’s burning, nearly scalding, and scrubs his skin raw. He turns the water hot enough that it doesn’t feel like rain, so he doesn’t smell the corpse lying less than five feet away or her perfume ( _But he’s not in Blüdhaven, Blockbuster isn’t near, he’s in Gotham, he’s safe_ ), he watches his skin turn red and feels his heart beat against his shaking fingertips ( _Just a few minutes, Grayson, you didn’t die, you **didn’t** die_).

Like most difficult days, he breathes out and dresses in a sweater Roy had left over back when they’d been on speaking terms and Roy and Lian had had a sleepover with him. He pulls on sweats that smell like Donna from the last time she’d been over with Wally, when they’d watched movies until everyone (except for him) had passed out. The material is loose enough that he doesn’t feel bound, doesn’t feel helpless and suspended in air while his father watches the bomb tick down ( _No, you’re in Gotham, you’re safe, you didn’t die_ ). It’s different enough from his costume that he can breathe in Donna’s scent ( _warm vanilla that makes him feel safe, not Tarantula’s spicy cinnamon that **burns**_ ) and see the walls of his apartment instead of the bunker, or the rooftop, or even the Batcave ( _because he has some demons that are less prominent, that linger and lurk over his shoulder until he’s feeling overwhelmed, until he feels like he’s breaking, and then things like the feel of Bruce’s trauma on top of his own, fists against flesh, things like a childhood darkened by the weight of a legacy he’d never known, will spill over too_ ).

He centers himself, breathing in and out until his heartbeat steadies, and then he forces himself to eat something so he doesn't lose any more weight (that's the mistake so many people make, after all, they don't _eat_ and then people _notice_ and Dick's a damn expert at hiding what he doesn't want people to see). For breakfast, as is the case majority of the time, it’s cereal saturated in milk, soggy enough that he can’t feel the rough edges scrap down his throat, soggy enough that there’s no similarity in the texture to that _goddamn pill_. Dick eats cereal and looks through photos on his phone, looks at the friends he barely sees and the friends that _aren’t_ friends anymore, and then he looks through photos of his family that hates him. He traces the curve of Tim's smile with a shaky finger, hears the berating click off Damian's tongue, feels the mocking pat on the head from Jason. Few that they are, the pictures are precious to him. Better times, as rare as they'd been. 

By the time that’s over, Dick tries to catch another few hours, and wakes up _actually_ screaming this time, screaming himself hoarse until he rips the sheets and blankets off him, until there’s nothing on him but the soft clothes that smell like _safety_ and _home_ and nothing like the spandex he’d died in or the spandex he’d been… ( _Not raped, you weren’t raped, she touched you, and you didn’t stop her_ ).

He always gives up on sleep after he screams. There are too many bugs he could've missed in the Penthouse, and he doesn’t want to risk tipping off Bruce or Babs that he _isn’t_ okay. He _can't_ let them know because they’ll send someone to check on him, and the thought of Tim or Jason checking up on him makes his heart palpitate painfully, and the thought of _Damian_ seeing him like this makes him drink enough coffee to keep his eyes open. It’s sweet enough that he doesn’t taste the bitterness, brown sugar so he doesn’t think of white. It works. Barely. 

On good days, he’ll call up Wally to talk about everything and nothing at all, to babble until the past feels less _dark_ , less _scarring_ , and he can think of the _good times_ and not just the _bad times_. On good days, he’ll text Donna and they’ll make plans to meet up, plans that sometimes happen and sometimes don’t, but always manage to make him feel better. On good days, he’ll go between Roy and Kory’s contacts and debate trying to rebuild the friendships he’d lost to bitterness and anger ( _your fault, Grayson, you know it’s your fault_ ).

Today isn’t a good day, so he flickers between all the contacts in his phone and doesn't call or text a single person. He stares at Jason’s glaring photo and wants to reach out, to _try_ , but he thinks of Jason's fist and hesitates long enough for common sense to kick in. He stares at photos of him and Timmy and wants to ask how he’s doing, to make sure he’s okay and sleeping enough and that he _knows_ how important he is to Dick, but then he thinks of the disdain in Timmy’s curled lip and he doesn't. He looks at Damian’s pictures and sees his corpse, and _god_ that kid deserves so much more than a broken mentor who can't deal with his own failures and the ghosts in his past. Where Dick should see Damian, should see his grumbly little gremlin who's always had his back, he sees the Heretic and he sees Talia, and Dick _can’t_ let Damian know what he’s really like, the darkness in his own mind, not when Dami’s probably struggling to deal with his own _actual_ death and his resurrection. By the time he gets to Roy and Kory, he’s already relived all his failures and mistakes enough times that he doesn’t have the energy or courage to try, doesn’t have the heart to inevitably fail them again, so he just turns his phone off and watches TV like every other bad day.

And because today is an _exceptionally bad day_ , Lex Luthor is on the news, and he doesn’t shut it off fast enough to drown out the _memories_ , the _ghosts_ and _pain_ lingering and waiting, so he feels the pill again, the pill that’s not there, but _is_ there, and he feels hands on his mouth, suffocating him, and he feels hands on his chest, pulling him apart, and the golden lasso tightening on his chest…

“ _On your **feet** , Cutie Pie…”_

He hears the Lois Lane from the alternate Earth croon at him, feel her hands fist in his hair as she shoves him forward…

“ _We’ll **hunt down** and **destroy** everything this Richard Grayson cares about. All who would **oppose us** , you risk not **your** lives, but the lives of those you cherish. Your **family, friends,** and **neighbors** will **die** while you watch.”_

He closes his eyes and feels the mask ripped from his skull, and he doesn’t know if it’s the faces of the Crime Syndicate or Blockbuster and Tarantula he sees, he doesn’t know if his mistake had been not saving the right person, or if his mistake is existing, being the wrong Richard Grayson. The room flickers, blood distorting his vision further, and he sees rain covered rooftops and desolate bunkers, he sees a Clark Kent that _isn’t_ Clark Kent and he sees Roland Desmond’s oversized form.

_“That’s the **secret** , the essential truth of your nature. You could take every beating I dish out. You might even enjoy them. You have absolutely **no regard** for your personal safety. But the people around you-well, that’s a **different** matter. Isn’t it? I’ll **take out** the people you care about – hell, even strangers you stand next to on the street – you won’t be able to shake someone’s hand without **marking them for death.** Do you like being **alone** , Dick? I’ll make sure you can’t save any of them. **Loved one** by **loved one** , **innocent** by **innocent** … it’ll never **stop**. **I’m never going to stop**. I can keep this up **forever**.”_

He feels the fear curl in his gut, feels it grow, the guilt…He’s _poison_ , he marks people for death just by knowing them, just like Desmond said. His father is dead and the League… _his_ League… are dead too. But they _aren’t_ dead, and he’s okay ( _but he’s not okay_ ). He tries to calm himself, but he can’t. Not with Luthor’s face still lingering in his mind’s eye, not when the room is still spinning, distorted…

And then Bruce is _there_ , in front of him, and his hand is on Dick’s cheek, the way he hasn’t touched Dick since Dick had died, and Dick’s lips open, speaking the lines he knows too well:

“ _Please… listen to me…You still have time to get yourself out of here.”_

_“I am not leaving you, Dick. I’m not **abandoning** you…”_

_Not yet_ , Bruce should say, because he'll abandon Dick in the end. Dick's sound-minded enough to know that. Everyone leaves... But then Bruce’s face is replaced with Luthor’s and it’s not _real_ , he _didn’t die,_ he’s okay…

“ _What the **hell** are you doing Luthor?!”_

_“I’m making an executive decision, Catwoman. I’m saving our lives… By ending his.”_

He can hear the thump of his heart, it’s _loud_ , so loud in his ears. The bomb beats in unison with his own, and he struggles against the hands on his mouth… _hecan’tbreathehecan’tbreathehe’sgoingtodie ~~…~~_

“ _I’m sorry, Mr. Grayson.”_

There’s not an ounce of regret or sorrow in Luthor’s eyes, and he struggles, tears pooling in his eyes that he refuses to release, because he’s going to _die_ , and he’s _not ready._ Not when Damian's only just been buried, not when the entire family is still grieving that loss. He can't do this to them…

He can’t die. He _can’t_.

He has to be _okay_ , has to be _alive_ …

And he doesn’t die, not really.

It’s more like a nap, his heart stuttering to a stop and his breath momentarily ceasing. It isn’t a crowbar to his chest and a bomb that actually goes off, it isn’t a spear through his chest from his clone on his mother’s orders...

He doesn’t die.

_(But if he didn’t die, why can’t he forget it?)_ ~~~~

But it’s _over_ and that _should be all_ , but _it isn’t_.

Because his trauma is layered, and when he shows weakness, when he has a _bad day_ , all that darkness lingering over his shoulder strikes.

When he gets like this, when he can’t trust what he sees or what he hears, he relies on contact, _physical_ contact. On less bad days, he’ll cling to Damian as tight as his little D will allow, trying to drown out the vision of the Robin suit stained in red. On less bad days, he’ll hold Donna’s hand like she never left him, or he’ll feel Wally’s chest solid against his back and pretend _he_ never left either.

But, as the day has proved thus far, it’s not a good day, an okay day, or a bad day. It’s a horrible day, so he takes it out on the punching bag, beating it until it breaks and the stupid chain snaps. Then he goes for the bulletproof walls, letting his skin shed and bleed as he tries to drown out everything he doesn’t _want_ to think about, doesn’t _want_ to remember. Dick beats the walls until he feels that comforting numbness he gets from running, and then he feels the tears leak down his face. He lets them fall, ignores them, because it’s the only response he has left, the only thing he has to cement him, ground him ( _because he hadn't cried when Tarantula had forced herself on him ~~it hadn't been rape, it couldn’t have been rape~~ , he hadn't cried when his heart had stopped and Luthor’s hand had covered his mouth enough to suffocate him ~~he hadn't died, he couldn’t have died~~ , he hadn't cried when Bruce had beaten him into submission to see if he still has his **heart** or if Superwoman had taken **that** from him too ~~he’s alive, he’s okay~~_ ). He never breaks during the event, never cries.

_“Quiet, mi amor… **Callado** …”_

_“…_ **_Loved one_ ** _by **loved one** , **innocent** by **innocent** … it’ll never **stop**. **I’m never going to stop**. I can keep this up **forever**.”_

_“I’m making an executive decision, Catwoman. I’m saving our lives… By **ending** his.”_

_“You **let** the Crime Syndicate **capture** you. You let them **torture** you. You let them give your **secrets** to the world…You let them turn you into a **bomb**. You let them **kill** you… I trained you to **live** and I watched you **DIE**!”_

In the aftermath?

He _shatters_ , shatters like porcelain thrown off a cliff, shatters like a mirror on one of his bad days when he can’t see himself in the mirror without _remembering_.

On days like this, he’s poison.

On days like this, he feels _dead_.

On days like this, he’s alone, and he’s not a person.

He’s a mask, _~~RobinRenegadeNightwingBatman~~_ ~~~~

He’s a number, _ ~~Agent 37~~_

He’s a _lie_.

And because today is one of the worse days, he gets a request from Bruce he can’t deny, a case assist on an unknown villain importing large shipments of ingredients to make any number of lethal cocktails, psychoactive ingredients galore and _other_ things Bruce doesn’t want on the streets. Bruce suspects that Riddler or Bane might have stock in it, but there hasn’t been enough evidence to make any conclusions. And _of course_ Red Hood and Red Robin are aiding him in investigating the shipment, because _of course_ Robin and Batman are away on a League mission they can’t avoid. _Of course_ Orphan and Spoiler are busy on the tail of a serial killer with a stripper fixation and Batgirl is with the Birds of Prey.

Of course he's alone with two people who can’t stand him, two people who avoid him at all costs. Today’s one of his **worst** days, but he’s _okay_ because he _has to be_.

‘ _Today **really** fucking sucks_.’

“Hood, you got eyes on the prize?” He asks, perched on one of the ever-convenient gargoyles stationed above the warehouse where the shipment of goodies is _supposed_ to be stored.

Jason grunts over the line, and he can see a glint of red on the other end of the warehouse, far enough that he can’t quite see if Jason’s eyeing the entrance or glaring at him. The glares wouldn’t surprise him. He’s used to them at this point.

“ _I got eyes on ‘em alright. Goons look like Riddler’s gang.”_

Dick sighs. He doesn’t _hate_ riddles; he hates the headache he gets when Nygma gives them. It’s annoying.

“Okay, should I do the honors?”

“ _I don’t fuckin’ care. I just want to get this case over with.”_

Figures. Dick's give up on expecting anything else from Hood.

“Okay, I’m going in.”

He manages to land on the roof no problem, carefully opening the skylight and landing on the catwalk without a sound.

“I’m in,” he murmurs, keeping an eye out for the goons, or the Riddler. He just wants to punch something, he’s not really picky. Sticks and stones can break his bones but chains and whips excite him... well, it's not really a 'but' more of an 'and'. Dick feels the most alive when he's in pain or causing it. _Posion_. No point fighting what he is.

“ _Surveillance shows fifteen heat signatures, not include yours_.” Tim chimes over the comm, tone carefully neutral, but with enough of an edge for Dick to know that Tim still hasn’t forgiven him. As if Dick needs reminding. He's not an idiot.

He still winces, because Tim had loved him at one point. He'd loved him like a brother, before he'd wandered too close and been burned, before he'd seen the _actual_ man behind the mask.

“Are they all beneath me?”

“ _Yes, but you should wait for us. It looks like the goons are armed.”_

Dick grins. He wouldn’t mind a challenge.

“ _Goldie,”_ Jason says with a knowing tone, “ _You better not—”_

“Too late!”

He drops a smoke bomb into the gathered crowd and follows it down, landing directly behind two of the goons.

“Well _hello,_ folks! It’s me, Nightwing, and today we’ll be doing a little act I call _Pun_ chable Puns!”

Not his best work, but hey, it totally works as a distraction.

He slams the two goons’ heads together, pulling his escrima sticks out when they fall.

A bullet soars right by his head, and Jason and Tim curse at him in unison.

“That wasn’t the warm welcome I was picturing, but oh well. Have it your way!”

Dick launches himself at the nearest goon, sending him into the guy behind him with a quick spin kick. Nightwing shocks them both.

“It’s rainin’ men,” he quips.

“ _Please stop. I’m almost there,”_ Tim groans.

Dick shrugs, leaping up to kick two goons in the face at once. Flexibility is a blessing.

“I guess we can split them.”

Jason’s arrival is marked by the sound of gunfire and dropping bodies.

“Your material needs some work, Wing-nut.”

Dick suppresses the wince at that name…

( _“Jeez, Wing-nut…You look like somebody died. Oh, that’s right, you **lost another little brother** recently, didn’t you?”_)

…covering it with a fake smile.

_Liar. He’s such a goddamn liar._

“Everyone's a critic, and _don’t_ call me that.”

And it must come out too harsh, too cold, because Jason gives him a funny look and doesn’t say anything back.

He forces himself to calm, taking down the remaining goons a bit harsher than he normally does. So much for banter... ( _Here, not there. Joker’s in Arkham, Joker’s not here. Tim’s alive, Jason’s safe. Calm the fuck down_ ).

“Incoming!” Tim shouts, and Dick barely has time to duck before darts soar over his head, knocking the remaining goons out. He gets up to send Tim a look, but his brother just shrugs him off.

“Faster my way.”

Jason holsters his gun.

“What took ya, Replacement?”

Tim shrugs.

“Traffic.”

Jason kicks the goon in front of him briefly, before stepping over another one.

“Let’s check this shipment so Boss Man can fuck off.”

There’s a rusty crowbar next to the sole crate in the rather large warehouse, and Dick pushes back the instinctive bile to pick it up. He pries open the box carefully, peeling back the front without much issue.

“Bingo,” Tim mutters, typing something into his keyboard.

On a good day, Dick would tease him and ask if he was texting Kon, but as the next few minutes, and the entire day has proved, it is _not_ a good day.

Jason whistles, low and loud.

“Ethanol, scopolamine, 3-quinuclidinyl benzilate, midazolam, flunitrazepam, sodium thiopental, and amobarbital…anyone thinking what I’m thinking?”

Tim’s eyes narrow.

“Riddler’s trying to get his hands on a truth serum.”

“Not trying, my young Batman wannabe. _Succeeding_.”

They all turn in unison to see Riddler grinning at them from where they’d left the goons, who, somehow, were no longer there.

“Riddle me this,” he asks, and Dick can’t help it. He rolls his eyes. Nygma notices and glares at him. “I can only live when there is light, but I die if the light shines on me. What am I?”

“A shadow,” Tim answers, and then everything turns dark.

*

The thing about trauma is it _lingers_ , it’s insidious, and it corrodes even the most ordinary of things. Dick’s used to being kidnapped, used to being bound and helpless at the hands of kidnappers on both sides of the mask, but he hasn’t been kidnapped since his not-death, since both sides of the mask had been forced together and he _died_ but _didn’t_ so everyone else could live.

He wakes up bound and pinned, something heavy on his chest.

“Wing, _breathe_ …”

He’s here, but he _isn’t_. He’s here and he’s there, he’s dead, but he’s _painfully_ alive.

“Red?” He asks.

“Yeah, Hood and I are here. Riddler is gone.”

He calms, because he’s okay. He’s fine. There’s no pill and there’s no bomb.

“Brats,” Riddler greets, and Dick’s eyes fly open to see Nygma holding a tray with one small…

“ _No_.”

The pill is deceptively small – white and round. ‘ _C_ _ardioplegia pill,’_ he remembers reading from Batman’s report, the one he hadn’t let the others see. ‘ _stops the muscles around the heart to make the patient flatline. Can only be restarted with a shot of adrenaline directly administered to the heart.’_

It’s hard to not freak out, faced with a pill identical to the one that’d _stopped his heart_ , but he thinks he pulls it off.

“What the fuck do you want Nygma? We’re a bit tied up here.”

Jason’s angry, which is good, because he’s less likely to notice Dick’s panic in his anger.

Riddler grins.

“You see, I remember the Crime Syndicate,” he starts, and Dick feels the blood drain from his face.

“ _We’ll **hunt down** and **destroy** everything this Richard Grayson cares about. All who would **oppose us** , you risk not **your** lives, but the lives of those you cherish. Your **family, friends,** and **neighbors** will **die** while you watch.”_

“I have an exceptional memory, perks of being a genius.”

“Out with it already, damnit,” Jason mutters.

Riddler continues as if Jason hadn’t spoken.

“…I remember the offer they gave, and I remember the gathering. I even remember seeing _you_ there, my feathered friend.”

He grins at Dick, and Dick feels his heart stutter.

“I remember you being beat around by that Super-Whore, and I remember her revealing something. I remember Ultraman threatening all of your friends and family, but it wasn’t _Nightwing’s_ loved ones he threatened, was it?”

He shuts his eyes.

Breath in.

Breath out.

He’s here.

Not there.

He’s alive.

He’s okay.

Here, not there.

“They figured it out, and _you_ managed to wipe it from the world’s minds. Didn’t you?”

The tip of Riddler’s cane digs into his throat, and it feels like the barbed edges of Lois Lane’s lasso.

“Something happened, something _bad_ , and you had to run, didn’t you?”

Dick clenches his fists, fingernails digging in deep enough to _hurt_.

Riddler laughs.

“Riddle me this, when you do not know what I am, I can be anything. When you know what I am, I am nothing. _What. Am. I?_ ”

Tim and Jason’s eyes feel heavy on him, feel like a weight on his chest ( _like the bomb that didn’t kill him, but it did kill him_ ).

“A lie. The answer is a lie.”

He hangs his head.

“Coorrect! Boy Wonder! And as your reward, you get to tell the _truth_ , the _whole_ truth, and nothing _but_ the truth. Fill in some of those gaps you made, it’s only fair.”

Whatever Riddler knocked him out with makes him feel sluggish, drowsy, and he can’t stop the hands forcing his mouth open,

“No… _Please…”_

He's begging. Dick doesn't care that he's begging. The pill is shoved down his throat _~~just like before~~_ and he _can’t breathe_ , even if there’s nothing but the ghost of a hand suffocating him, he can’t _calm_ , he’s _strapped and bound and helpless and he’s going to die_ …

“Let him _go_ , you bastard!” Jason shouts, but it’s drowned out by his heart, by the feeling as it slows and the world dims ever so slightly…

“Question one: who all forgot whatever it is that I forgot?”

Dick tries to bite back an answer, but it slips out before he can stop it.

“The world. Everyone but family and friends.”

Riddler pats his head mockingly.

“Good boy. Next question: what did I forget?”

“My identity,” he answers easily, feeling the tug on his tongue as he resists, “what happened after.”

Riddler’s smug look spells trouble.

“Now, what _exactly_ happened after your identity was revealed? I’m curious.”

Dick bites down on his tongue because _no_ , he _refuses_ to burden Jason and Tim with the knowledge that he did die, not when they've gone through so much worse. He doesn’t want them to feel like they have to forgive him out of misplaced guilt.

( _Poison_ , _he’s poison, and he’s dead, and he’s toxic, bad, wrong)_ ~~~~

“Wing, you’re hurting yourself.”

He can feel the pill, even if it’s long gone. He pulls on his binds, desperate to pull it out, to _take it out_. He’s dying, isn’t he? He can’t breathe, can he?

“It’s only going to hurt the longer you resist, Winghead.”

He breathes, trying to push away the tug on his tongue, the pill not in his throat, the slow creeping panic making his heart race and…

“I…”

“Come _on_ , it’s not like I’m asking for your identity.”

“I…I…”

“Just fuckin’ answer before you bite your tongue off, Boy Blunder!”

“I…”

“Wing, we _already know_ what happened afterward, you can say it.”

“ **No** ,” he gasps, spitting out some of the blood in his mouth, “You don’t.”

But he _isn't supposed to say that_ , so he bites his lip down until it hurts.

“What…” Jason looks at him, anger temporarily replaced by confusion. “What the hell do you mean? You faked your death, lied to everyone…”

Riddler still has that _godforsaken_ grin on, like he knows the truth pulling on Dick’s tongue, like he knows all the lies carved into Dick’s soul…

“I didn’t…”

He bites down again.

“Wing!”

“ ** _I DIDN’T LIE. I DIED!_** ”

He’s shaking, and he’s struggling against his bonds hard enough for it to hurt. He’s pulling, tugging because he _can’t breathe_ and he feels like he’s having a heart attack, his chest throbbing, aching, wheezing, _shaking_...

“That’s all I needed to know.”

And he falls to the ground, curling in a ball as he rocks, cradling his legs close to his chest…

Because he’s okay ~~(he didn’t die)~~

He’s alive ~~(perfectly fine)~~

He’s not screaming ~~(who’s screaming?)~~ ~~~~

His world gives way to darkness as screams claw at his throat, and the last thing he sees is the bottom of Jason’s combat boots.

*

He wakes up in a cold sweat, surrounded by a sea of faces. He fakes a smile. Seems like the entire family is around his bedside…

“Uh, hi guys?”

He winces as he talks, throat dry and scratchy.

“Water?” Bruce offers, and Dick accepts it with a nod.

He downs it in two gulps, sighing and setting it beside him.

“What’s everyone doing here?” He asks, before in a lighter tone, “Is there a party I didn’t know about?”

“Richard,” Damian says, eyes ringed with red, “You _died_.”

His smile shrinks.

“I…I didn’t _really_ die, it was more like…I was unconscious, and my heart stopped, and then I was fine.”

He’s downplaying it – he knows he is – because he doesn’t want them to know about the sleepless nights he wakes up drenched in sweat, about the sad attempts at naps that end in screams. He doesn’t want them to know about the constant triggers and not _here_ , not _there_ sensations, the echoes of touch he feels when no one is there.

His family only has two extremes – oblivious, or stalker-level observant. He’s okay, and they can’t know he’s any _less_ than okay, or else he’ll have to _think_ about how not okay he is every time he sees them or the pity in their eyes. He can’t deal with that or he’ll break more than he already does.

At least he knows the truth serum wore off.

“Dick, you _died_. Luthor had to restart your heart. I thought they all knew that.”

Dick rubs his hand over his face because of course Bruce would say something like that.

“I… it wasn’t something they needed to know, B. Non-essential information.”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Jason spits, and he’s _furious_ , eyes drilling holes in Dick’s head. “I thought you _lied_.”

“You went off the information you had, Jay. And I did lie, technically.”

Jason takes a step past the quiet Cass and Steph, putting a finger in Dick’s face despite Tim’s half-hearted protest.

“You _died_ , Dick, _dead_. You think I would have been harassing you over faking your death half as much if I’d known you _didn’t fucking fake it?_ ”

Dick sighs.

“I didn’t really die, Jay. I’m fine.”

Damian looks from Jason to him, eyes all too knowing.

“Richard, you died. It doesn’t matter how long you were gone, only that you _were_. You can’t compare your death to Todd’s or even mine, because pain is pain. Isn’t that what you always taught me, that not everything in life is a competition?”

Dick loves Damian, but he _really hates_ when the kid turns his word against him.

“But…”

“No buts,” Tim interrupts, “You died, and I’m sorry that I was so busy being _hurt_ that I wasn’t there for you the way you’re always there for me.”

“Tim, it’s okay—”

Tim cuts him off with his hand.

“No, Dick, it’s not. You were there for me when I lost _everyone_ , and yes, you should have told us you were still alive, but I understand a bit more why you didn’t.”

Cass’s hand is gentle on his shoulder.

“You lost…” Her eyes seem to read his soul, and he feels bare before her. “Identity, self. Life.”

He nods.

“I…” He looks at his hands, taking a deep breath. “When Damian died, I didn’t know what the hell to do. I loved him like he was my own,” and he purposefully avoids Bruce and Damian’s eyes. “I went on a self-destructive rampage, and I was in over my head more than once. The Crime Syndicate was a long time coming, I’d been reckless long before they came knocking, and I just… I didn’t care. When… _after_ the whole thing, I just wanted to see you guys. I just wanted to _live_ and be with _family_ because I wasn’t really ready to be dead, not like I’d thought, but Batman…”

He pauses, and Bruce takes over.

“I needed someone on the inside, someone I could trust. Spyral was a situation growing out of my control, an unpredictable entity that posed a threat to the entire community. I asked Dick to…”

Bruce’s voice fades, words replaced with the ones Dick’s already heard…

(“ _They’re **hunting** masked heroes. They want our **identities**. Our **secrets**. Who we **love** , who we **hate** …They’re looking for who we really are, Dick. Who we have to pretend to be. We won’t let them do it. You **can’t** let them do it…”_)

“ _Told_ you mean,” Jason shouts, “We all know how you operate, Bruce! It’s not an option with you, never is! You probably blamed him for his own death and made him think it was a punishment for Damian’s, right?”

(“ _They’re my **family** , Bruce. If I’m dead, if they **think** that I’m dead… After **Damian**?!… They’re family! **My** family! I can’t do it to them…I just can’t. I’m **alive** , Bruce. I’M **ALIVE**!”_)

“Jason,” Tim tries, but Jason’s on a roll.

“I can picture it now, Golden Boy, beaten and distressed cause he just _fucking died_ , you, angry because he wasn’t _perfect_ , because he dared to die in front of you…”

“Stop.”

“And of _course_ you’re ready to take advantage of his death, you’re _you_. Ain’t it real _convenient_ that right after Dick died you immediately began trying to bring Damian back?”

“Jason, please—”

Jason shoves Tim’s hand off, getting into Bruce’s face.

“Tell me, Old Man, did Luthor stop his heart, or was it _you_? Getting rid of the competition so you can be the Demon Brat’s favorite?”

“ _Jason_ , that's enough.”

Bruce’s voice holds a warning.

(“ _How can you ask me to do this? How can you do this to **me**? After **everything** , how can you put **this** on me?_”)

Damian’s hand squeezes his own, tight, but not tight enough to drown out Bruce’s words, the feeling of glass carving into his back…

“You know, I remember Al talking about finding the Batcave trashed after Dick died, within the same fucking _week,_ actually. I bet I can tell you why the Batmobile was trashed, and I bet if I checked the cave footage, it would back me up.”

(“ _But what about you? Are you **them** or are you **me**? After the Crime Syndicate captured you, tortured you, **killed** you – tell me, Dick, my boy, after all of this – will you **give up**? Will you give **in**?”_)

“Dick?” Bruce calls, looking over Jason’s shoulder, “Dick, what—”

(“ _I’M NOT YOUR **BOY**!”_)

“I’m not your boy,” He murmurs, and Bruce looks stricken. “I…I’ve got to go.”

He runs off to his bike and kicks it into gear before anyone can stop him.

It’s too much, too quick.

‘ _Today really **fucking** sucks_.’


	2. i wish you could be honest (with me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick isn’t younger anymore, and as he grew, the heights lost their clarity, their safety. The darkness lost its warmth, its stability. He knows Bruce won’t catch him, not when it counts, not when it matters, just as he knows Batman is fallible. He can’t plant roots the way he used to, can’t trust the way he used to, and sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes it’s impossible. Sometimes existing seems like an insurmountable task, something harder than breathing, harder than sleeping. Sometimes he chokes on air, and sometimes he goes numb with the pure sensations that came with living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all you people who asked for a sequel to a ONE SHOT I hope you're happy. Not only did I write another 4k for this freaking piece, I WROTE OTHER CHAPTERS. Also, because you did this to me, feel free to check out the other work I dropped today called: he had a chest full of heart and a body full of scars (pain became the only way that he could ever learn). It's about RHATO #25 and the aftermath, so enjoy this chapter and my suffering, you horrible beautiful people.
> 
> (Thanks for all the love and support though ;) )
> 
> Also: Trigger Warning for Suicidal thoughts, depression, kinda suicide attempt? And I oop.

One of his earliest memories, besides the trapeze, is fire.

He remembers dancing with fire alongside his Aunt Tatia, remembers feeling the burn in his lungs as he twirls it and the way it warms him, draws him in. He’d had to balance it, to arc it close enough that it wouldn’t fall, and far enough away that it wouldn’t touch him.

_“We do not control the fire, Cariño, we wield it. Our bodies focus the fire, and the fire moves with us.”_

He thinks pain is like that, like fire. It burns, and it consumes, it sets every nerve aflame and it’s uncontrollable. He can’t control it, not the _pain_ , not the _trauma_ , but it moves with him, and sometimes it focuses him.

He used to think the circus was the normal part of his life, but the Court had proved him wrong. He’d been destined to be a harbinger of death, to be the kind of person he’d pretended to be with Deathstroke, cold and emotionless and deadly. He’d been…

Built from lies, which is fitting.

Dick will never know if his parents had been part of the Court, and it stains even the most mundane memories he’d once looked upon fondly.

He sees the trapeze, and he can hear the sounds his parents made when they fell.

He sees fire, and he can feel it singe his skin as the circus tent _burns_.

He sees the circus, and he can’t help but see himself with blue veins and matching gold eyes.

He tries not to think about it.

_(But look how **that** strategy is working for him)_

When Dick had been younger, he’d found comfort in heights. He'd found a sort of clarity in heights that he couldn’t find on the ground, and the fear had been a big part of it. He _should_ have been afraid of heights, of the ground that had killed his parents. He should’ve been afraid of the fall, the lack of a safety net…but he loves flying, he's _always_ loved flying, and part of flying is learning how to fall. Part of flying meant _loving_ the fall because Dick’s never blamed gravity for his parents’ deaths, he's never feared placing himself in gravity’s power. Gravity is a mindset, and he’s never given up on defying it as much as possible.

When Dick had been younger, he’d run to the rooftops to breathe, to _rest_ , because the darkness had been a friend, an ally, a reminder of the mentor Bruce use to be and the man that had taken him in when he hadn’t had anyone else. It use to let him forget about the times Bruce had thrown him out and away like a finished newspaper, use to let him forget about the legacy Bruce had taken from him and turned into a mantle. He’d once taken comfort from melting into his surroundings, in letting his training take over and pretending his mentor will always catch him.

When Dick had been younger, he’d danced in the rainstorms, he’d laughed easier, smiled honestly. He hadn’t been burdened the way he is now, burdened by the mantle that shouldn’t have been a mantle ( _Robin had been his mother’s name for him, a reminder, a dedication, not something to be taken, not something separate from him_ ), burdened by the titles he’d never asked for ( _Batman, Golden Boy, Perfect, Leader, Oldest_ ). Dick had danced in rainstorms without a care in the world, he’d spun and moved the way he once had under a circus tent. He’d felt alive, felt tangible, real, perfectly imperfect and _okay_.

Dick isn’t younger anymore, and as he'd grown up, the heights had lost their clarity, their safety. The darkness lost its warmth, its stability. He knows Bruce won’t catch him now, not when it _counts_ , not when it _matters_ , just as he knows Batman is fallible. He can’t plant roots the way he use to, can’t _trust_ the way he use to, and sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes it’s impossible. Sometimes _existing_ seems like an insurmountable task, something harder than _breathing_ , harder than _sleeping_. Sometimes he chokes on air, and sometimes he goes numb with the pure sensations that come with _living_.

His mother had always said their family has the world in their heart, that they travel because they are wanderers in their souls. Graysons aren’t _meant_ to be grounded, in any sense of the word. And so his roof jumping, introduced via vigilantism, became a comfort when he felt overwhelmed, stagnant.

He finds comfort in falling, but it is less the _fall_ and more the _movement_. The feeling of air rushing past him, of gravity taking control. And sometimes he can’t fall far enough, can’t _jump_ far enough, and he just _runs_. Runs until he can’t see his ghosts in the rearview mirror, until he can pretend everything is great and nothing is wrong. He use to run to the Manor, back when he’d felt okay in calling it home, but those days exist in the time before he’d been fired and replaced, before the bitterness and everything else. Before the Manor became another thing to run _from_.

Gotham had been home, but Blüdhaven had been _safe_. When Bruce’s temper had driven him away, when the sight of that R had become too much, Blüdhaven had always been there. He'd been alone, but he'd been safe. From judgment, from expectations, and failure, and the deaths that seemed to follow him…

He’d been proud, once, felt like he could do anything. He’d thought he could turn around the BPD. He’d thought he could be the Batman to the neon-ridden monstrosity next door. He’d thought he could have it all, could be Nightwing without losing Dick, could love without it being strained, could be everything and _anything_ those around him needed ( _because he hadn’t been enough for Jason, and he’d died, and Tim had been young, so young, and he couldn’t have ignored Steph when she didn’t have a proper mentor, or his friends…_ ). He’d failed.

When he’d been Robin, he hadn’t known failure, not truly, he hadn’t known pain, not as intimately as he does now. He’d found comfort in heights and darkness and his mentor’s oversight, but now?

Now he finds comfort in the distance, in moving without _stopping_ , and he doesn’t know he’s here until the broken and worn-down sign is in front of him.

_Welcome to Blüdhaven_

They say all roads lead home, but his roads lead to his past, his failures and the mistakes he can't outrun. ‘Haven has to be damn near the top of that list, right up there with his death. There’s a railing around the crater plastered in warning tape and caution symbols. It brings back memories, very few of which are good.

As Robin, he hadn’t know failure the way he does now. He hadn't known what it means to be surrounded by death, what it means to put your heart and soul into something that amounts to nothing. It had been a _game_ back then, puns and pranks and trying to make Bruce smile just once. No one had died, there’d been close calls, but it felt more like a video game than real life, and some small part of him really thought Batman and Robin wpuld never die, would never _end_. He'd thought being Robin meant being invincible. He hadn't known failure until he'd become Nightwing, until he had been forced from Robin and thrown away. Then, all he'd known was _failure_. Jason’s death had marked an end to his illusions, to his idealism and jokes. It because _real_ , because Batman had _failed_. Batman isn't supposed to fail. His relationships had failed next, one by one, loved one by loved one. No one had stayed, no one had lasted. He had either been too closed off or too open, too standoffish or too easy. His day job had come next, fired for being too clean, too _good_ to be safe in the BPD.

After that, it had become a pattern. People had died. Lots of people. He couldn’t save Blockbuster, and then he couldn’t save himself. He hadn't been able to save Donna, and then he hadn't been able to save his _entire fucking city_. Years, _years_ , of his life, and his energy, and his optimism _gone_.

Blüdhaven had been destroyed for nothing more than being connected with him, as an act of terrorism against the super community, because of _him._ By the time the chemo had dropped and the nuclear rain came falling down, he’d been running himself into the ground without anyone noticing. He’d been decidedly _not_ okay. Bad enough for Bruce to drag him and Tim on a family vacation around the world, even if he’d never mentioned the _why’s_.

He’s cold, but it’s hard to notice when he’s staring at the crater where his city used to be. He’s shaking, and he doesn’t know if it’s from the cold or the panic attack he’s been fighting since he'd left.

Failure isn’t something that’s tangible, it isn’t something he can hide from, not really. It’s multi-faceted and endless, it shifts and moves with him, after him. Sometimes it looks like his parents’ screaming bodies, bloodied and broken and shattered on the circus ground. Sometimes it looks like Raya, with her red-painted lips spread impossibly wide. Sometimes it looks like Damian, or Tim, or Bruce. Sometimes it’s a pill, and sometimes it’s a shapeshifter. Sometimes it’s Tarantula, and sometimes it’s Kory or Babs or Roy.

Failure isn’t a place, but if his failure is a place…

He’d run to Blüdhaven all the time in the past. Out of Bruce’s shadow and on his own. Paying his own way, fighting his own crusade. He doesn’t know what he’d been thinking. He’s never been built for being alone. He’d made so many mistakes, made so many bad calls, and by the time the nuclear fire had rained down, by the time he’d seen his death as his city fell apart…

Dick hadn’t cared. He’d been beyond done, beyond tired and broken down and fed up. He'd just wanted his pain to end, and it almost had. Almost had before chemo, every time he'd stood on buildings just a bit too fall and looked down.

Dick _could_ have fallen, _could_ have let himself give in, but he hadn’t. He would have called Wally, and Wally would have calmed him down enough to just patrol. He would have called Donna, and Donna would have shown up and held him tight until they both cried. he would have called Roy, and Roy… Roy had cared then. Before Dick had screwed things up. So had Kory.

He peers over the edge of the crater, legs dangling over the edge.

It’s tempting.

It’s _always been_ tempting.

Temptation in the security of freefall, in the simplicity of ending it. It’s a choice, one he’s always been strong enough to say no to.

But he hasn’t always had his family fighting over him, hasn’t had his father’s words rip him open and beat him bloody in every way possible. He hasn’t always been forced to deal with things he’s been fine ignoring, on top of the constant pain every time he goes to call someone he can’t anymore.

Roy…Roy had been his best friend, alongside Wally and Donna. Roy had been the older brother he’d never had; the confident bad influence and fun times he hadn’t known he’d needed. He could fuck up with Roy and Roy would forgive him. He could push, and Roy would push _back_ , not lecturing him but not letting him off the hook. Last time he’d felt like this had been before his death, after Blüdhaven went up in flames. Roy had brought Lian over and forced Dick to talk, forced him to _feel_ the way Dick never lets himself feel.

“ _The only thing you’re doing, Robin, is sitting on your ass, snuggling my daughter, and **talking to me** , because I know you’re not okay.”_

Dick looks into the pit, and he feels a pull, the same pull he’d felt before.

His phone screen is cracked, but he opens it onto the familiar number he can recite from memory. He stares at Roy’s contact picture – Lian, Roy, and Dick’s faces smooshed together for a selfie at the park – the same way he had earlier this morning, or yesterday (he hadn’t checked the date before he’d taken off). He wants to call Roy, feels the burned bridge like a freshly severed limb, like grief…

He wants everything to go back to how it _was_ when he'd been _happy,_ and everything hadn't been so fucked up. Back before death became something real, back before he’d grown up and lost everything and every one piece by piece. He wants to be Robin, and he wants Roy to be Speedy, and he wants to be a Titan that takes life too seriously sometimes but can let loose and have fun. He wants to go back to the time he’d stolen the Batmobile on a dare, racing Wally down Gotham’s streets at 3 am. He wants to go back to when he’d still called the Manor his home, before Bruce had taken it away with Robin.

His screen blurs as the tears fall.

He’s a fucking mess.

Roy had known that he is a fucking mess, and he’d cared.

He’d _cared_ …

Before he can talk himself out of it, he’s dialing Roy’s number for the first time in a year. He needs…he needs to hear Roy’s voice, even if it’s just his voicemail, needs to remember that someone had cared once, even if Dick had fucked it all up…

(“ _it was a tragic **accident** , I’m afraid. Your folks died but they weren’t murdered, kid.”_)

(“ _You’re **FIRED** , Dick. Leave your keys with Alfred on the way out!”_)

(“ _Remember that was **me** disguised as Kory. If we weren’t meant to be, seems to me you should have **sensed** the difference!_”)

(“ _You know, Robin? He’s **dead**. There was a funeral and everything. **Joker killed him**.”_)

(“ ** _STAY DOWN!_** _”…“Donna, you’re in too clo—“…“ **STAY DOWN!** ”_)

(“ _It’ll **never** stop… **I’ll never stop**. I can keep this up **forever**.”_)

(“ _Quiet, mi amor… **Callado** …”_)

(“ _His name was **Jason** , right?”_)

(“ _He’s dead…. **Master Bruce is dead** …”_)

(“ _We were the **best** , Richard_…”)

( _“You **let** the Crime Syndicate **capture** you. You let them **torture** you. You let them give your **secrets** to the world…You let them turn you into a **bomb**. You let them **kill** you…”_)

“ _What the **hell** do you want, Dick_?!” Roy demands, and it’s the first time Dick’s heard his voice since before, before he’d burned this bridge and so many others.

“Roy?” He croaks, trying and failing to not sound _completely_ pathetic. “I didn’t think you’d answer."

“ _If you didn’t think I’d **answer** , then why the fuck would you call?”_

Dick hesitates, letting the sound of Roy’s heavy breathing over the phone comfort him.

“I…”

He use to know Roy so well, use to be able to predict his every move and every word. They’d been in perfect sync. He doesn’t know how Roy would take the truth, now, if he’d care or just shrug him off. Roy thinks Dick faked his death too, and he’d been in the Jason category of reactions when he’d heard the news (even if they hadn’t been on speaking terms).

Dick breathes, steeling himself.

“I just…I shouldn’t have called, it was stupid. I’m sorry.”

Roy sighs on the other end.

“ _It’s been a year, Dick. A full year, and the only form of communication you’ve had with me are gifts for Lian and cards on holidays. You haven’t called before, so why now?”_

Dick hugs his knees to his chest.

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me. You ha…seemed pretty upset with me, last time I saw you.”

Roy sighs again, less tired and annoyed, more… sad? Weary? It’s different from what he’d expected from Roy, and it puts him on edge. He knows that Jason wouldn’t have had time to tell his teammates much of anything, not with the way he’d been at Bruce’s throat, but he feels exposed, feels like a live wire waiting to spark, to _ignite_. He’s humming with it, with the fear that Roy _knows_ ( _no one is supposed to know_ ).

“ _I don’t hate you, Dick. I know you think I do, but I don’t.”_

Dick works his lip between his teeth.

“I…I never said you did.”

“ _You didn’t have to, idiot. I’ve been looking after your ass for how long? You think I don’t know how to read between the lines by now, Tinkerbell?”_

There’s so much fondness in his tone that Dick feels a soul-deep ache, a full-body pain he can’t explain. He’s _missed_ this so _much_.

“You…You said you were done with me.”

“ _I was pissed, Dick. And worried. You were Batman, and you’d spent your entire childhood running from that mantle. Didn’t help that I’d been high out of mind half the fucking time, Donna had just come back, Wally was missing. It was a shitshow, none of us handled it well, and you pushed everyone away, pushed **me** away, and I didn’t have the energy to push __back.”_

Batman had been one of the darkest points in his life, and that says a _lot_. He’d been suffocated by the weight of a mantle he’d never wanted, and every time Clark had asked if he was sure, every time Alfred had tried to hide the pity in his eyes, and Donna had asked if he was _okay_ , he'd felt like he couldn’t breathe. He’d felt fake, inadequate, a poor pretender. It's always been easier to force people to leave than to let them see what he hides, what he can't always restrain. It had been easier to be alone than to let them see the violence and anger he'd let loose. Damian had saved him from the cowl, but before… It had been bad.

He’d known all the right words, every button to push to make Roy stop, to make him give up.

“I made you leave.”

“ _I figured that out later, and I was less mad. You never apologized.”_

“You’ve never liked my excuses.”

Roy snorts, and Dick can picture him slouched in a chair in his living room the way he had in Titan’s tower, or bent over his workbench repairing arrowheads, phone balanced on one shoulder while he works. He wonders if Lian is with him, if she’s asleep. He wonders if she misses him the way he’s missed her.

“ _I’ve never cared for prettied words. I knew you pushed me away after I had the time and space to get my head back on straight. But if you think one argument makes me care about you any less, made not being around you any easier, you’re fucking insane.”_

Dick breathes out, looking into the rubble again.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you hate me, Roy. You don’t have to lie to me. Hell, _I_ hate me on some days.”

 _Most days_.

And that must have been the wrong thing to say because Roy lets out a noise that sounds like ‘ _ah_ ’.

“ _Dick, where are you right now?”_

He breathes in.

He can see Tarantula in his peripheral, white-clothed eyes mocking him, hands running down the length of her curves in a way that’s supposed to be seductive but makes him feel ill.

He can see Blockbuster in his shadow, the bulk and brawn telling him he’s _poison_ , a _curse_. He can feel the monster’s hands tightening around Dick's throat as he threatens everyone he _loves_.

He can hear the bomb tick as his heart beats, can feel the weight pressing on his chest keenly, as if it's more than an echo of a memory.

He can hear a gunshot ring through the silence, the sound of a body falling, and it’s _just a memory_ , just a horrible, bad, dark memory…

“Blüdhaven. I’m in Blüdhaven.”

“ _Dick, I swear to god if you’re on the edge of the crater, I’m going to kill you.”_

Dick gives a watery laugh.

“I’m here, but I’m not Roy. I’m here and I’m there and I’m okay but I’m _not_. I feel dead. I feel like I should be dead. I’m…”

Jason.

(“ _Like you ever gave a shit, you **hated** me.”_)

Donna.

(“ _I wanted to save you. I **had** to save you.”_)

Wally.

(“ _I was there, then I wasn’t, and I saw you, but **you couldn’t** save me.”_)

Blockbuster.

(“ _You killed him… **I** killed…we killed him…”_)

Bruce.

(“ _He’s alive. He’s alive, and I told you, but **you didn’t believe** me.”_)

Damian.

(“ _We were the **best** , Richard.”_)

“…poison. Roy, I’m _bad_ and you should hate me. You need to, I can’t…I can’t lose you too. I’m poison, everyone around me dies. You need to stay away… _I_ need to stay away…”

Roy curses on the line, and Dick’s feeling the pull again, in his gut, and he sees Batman looming over him, telling him what a fuck up he is. He sees Joker in his bloodied Elvis suit, grinning at him with a crowbar in hand. He sees _himself_ , dressed in the Talon outfit he’d never worn.

“You’re _just as bad as me_ ,” Talon says, and there’s a deadness to him, a cold look in his golden eyes, that resonates in Dick.

“At least I kill on purpose, at least _I_ am strong enough to make my Wayne proud…”

He leans forward, away from the false images and towards the ruins of his life, towards the hole where his city used to be…

“ _Uncle Nightwing?”_ Lian asks, and there’s a note of fear in her voice, a note she should never _have_ in her voice.

He’s silent, repressing the ever-present panic swelling in his chest, trying to focus on something, to hold _on_ to something…

“ _Are you okay? Daddy left me with his phone, he said he’s coming to you. Are you hurt?”_

“Lian…” he whispers, but she’s always been mature for her age, always able to know what someone needs without having to be told.

“ _I missed you, Uncle Nightwing. I loved the presents you gave me, but I wanted to see you more. I told Daddy I’d give up all my birthday presents if I could visit you. He said you were a bad word, but not your name, a different one.”_

“I missed you too, pumpkin, you have no clue how much…”

“ _Daddy missed you,”_ Lian adds matter-of-factly, “ _But you didn’t call or visit. I have cards for you when you visit. You are visiting, Uncle N, right?”_

“Sweetie…”

“ _I love you. Daddy, Aunt Kory, and Uncle Jason do too, they’re just buttheads about it.”_

He grips the phone tight with both hands, clutching to it like it’s a lifeline (and maybe it is).

“I hurt them, Lian, that’s why I haven’t been around. I hurt people.”

“ _Do you do it on purpose?”_

“No, but I still did it.”

And she pauses, contemplating, quieter than he’s ever heard her.

“ _How can you fix things if you don’t try, Uncle Nightwing?_ ”

“Lian…some things _can’t_ be fixed; some things aren’t worth salvaging…”

He frowns, thinking of his relationship with Jason that never seems to improve, that only gets worse the more he tried. The same can be said for all of his relationships. Every last one, romantic or otherwise.

He’s damaged goods, broken by his experiences. He’s… even if he lives, even if he moves on… Bruce won’t trust him in the field, _no one will_.

Dick’s a liability, he’s unstable.

Who _will_ trust him?

What if Bruce benches him permanently?

What if he disowns him?

What is the _family_ disowns him?

“ _Uncle Nightwing, are you still there? I’m supposed to keep you on the phone._ ”

His words come out a little shaky.

“Y-Yeah, I’m here.”

“ _Can you visit more? I won’t even complain if you bring Damian.”_

That arouses a chuckle out of him, and it doesn’t feel forced.

“I thought you and Little D got off on the wrong foot.”

“ _Yeah, but if he likes you as much as I do, then he can’t be that bad. He’s just a bit mean. Auntie Donna said I should give him a chance, that he’s important to you like I am to Daddy.”_

He hears the motorcycle come to a stop behind him, and a furious Roy Harper rips the phone from his hands.

“Hey, baby girl, Uncle Nightwing and I will be back soon. Auntie Donna is on her way, and I promise your Uncle will be there in the morning, so go to bed on time. Love you.”

He doesn’t hear her reply, but the call ends and he and Roy are face-to-face for the first time since they had fallen out, before he’d died.

Roy Harper looks different. His hair is longer, scraggly and shaggy in a way Dick has never seen it. He’s wearing a horrendous trucker hat, and the weird goatee he has growing is almost as bad as Oliver Queen’s _(Dick’s always hated facial hair)._

But more than the changes, he sees the things that _haven’t_ changed. Roy’s eyes are still bright, even if they show some wariness. Roy is still taller, as infuriating as that is. And Roy…

Roy still showed up.

“You fucking _idiot_!” Roy shouts, but instead of the punch he expects, the punch he deserves, Roy’s arms pull him into a fierce hug. His own arms come up to hesitantly hug him back, squeezing as the tears prickle his eyes again.

God, he feels like a mess. Looks like it too.

“I _don’t_ hate you, Dickie, not on your life. I have never been capable of hating you. _God_ …I thought I wasn’t gonna make it. I was so _worried_ …”

If Roy notices the tears soaking into his shirt when Dick rests his head on his shoulder, he doesn’t comment on it.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m here, okay? I’m _here_ , and I don’t care how much of a _dick_ you are, I’m not leaving. I don’t care what happened, or what hasn’t. I’m _staying_.”

He feels Roy rest his chin on the top of Dick’s head.

“Got it?”

Dick smiles into Roy’s shoulder, stepping away from the crater.

“Got it.”

(He has his brother back, and that makes the world seem a little less dark)


	3. hold on i still need you (when haven't i?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There was nothing you could’ve done,” Dick says. “B was right there and he couldn’t—” he couldn’t save me. No one could. I was a lost cause, reckless. I let them catch me. Let them torture me. Let them break me.
> 
> Donna rolls her eyes, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
> 
> “I’d kill for you,” she murmurs. “I would’ve done whatever I had to if it meant you didn’t have to suffer.”
> 
> “Don—”
> 
> “I know you don’t like killing, so I won’t, but I would have killed Luthor before letting him…” kill you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!! I'm super behind on comments and I'm sorry, but lots of projects are coming out soon so that's my apology! School has been insane, so enjoy the update while I disappear back into the void of stress for a lil bit lmfao.
> 
> I love you all so much and the fact that so many people have connected with this story astounds me. i'm amazed and grateful for all the support you have offered for what was simply a stress relief exercise to get me out of my own head. It means the world that you guys find value in this, and catharsis.
> 
> So just thanks for being the best <3
> 
> Special thanks to the Wayne Server for fueling my creativity, Epi for being a goddess, Q for being super supportive and the best idea bouncer I could have, Mori for being the rat king we all love, Lu for being just as wacky as me, Ico for being amazing, and Win for being Win. I love you all dearly!
> 
> Chapter song is Hold On by Chord Overstreet <3

“Love me,” He’d begged Cat, who’d been his friend and his confidante and all he’d had when Babs wrote him off and Bruce cut him off and no one else would so much as look at him.

“Love me,” He’d begged her, because she’s already taken everything she can from him, already ripped him open and seen the ugliness within so she _has_ to keep him, _has_ to want him when no one else does. No one else cares.

“Love me,” he’d begged the woman who’d killed Blockbuster, because he’s a pathetic parasite trying to fill a hole with borrowed love, leeched warmth, so he doesn’t feel so empty inside, so he can fake his smiles and think his life means anything at all.

No one loves him, not in that till-death-do-us-part endless way. Not in the way that needs no words or excuses, that goes beyond time and death and life and distance. His love dooms. His love _kills_. His love is poison, just like him. Just like his existence. Leech. Parasite. Dirty. Wrong. Pathetic. That’s him.

He can see it in every glance at a mirror, feel it in every pointless breath of air his useless body takes, tastes it in every piece of tasteless food he forces himself to consume. He doesn’t know what it is half the time. Not if he doesn’t check. Everything tastes like cinnamon, like the smoke off a freshly fired gun and blood pooled in his mouth. Everything smells like the ozone off a laser-made hole in human flesh, like Tom Ford cologne mixed with perspiration, like a fresh corpse under his hands. Everything sounds like laughter, like choked out hysterical laughter and names and taunting and smug words and names he doesn’t want.

Is it real? Is it not? Does he care? Does he not?

He sees his corpse, hulking and grotesque where it rots a few feet away. He sees his smile, red and wide and not _red_ enough. He feels her hands, clawing and pinning and pulling and taking. He feels…

He feels Roy’s arms tight around his waist. He feels Roy’s breath in his ear, slow and steady. He sees hands. Scarred hands. Hands that have seen labor and hands that have saved him, white around handlebars. He tastes salt in his mouth from tears and the gasoline of the roaring engine beneath him. He hears Roy’s voice, soothing, and patient. Hears him telling Dick things. Things he should be listening to. Things he _wants_ to listen to.

“Almost there, Dickie. Almost there. Shh… Stay with me. Here, not there right?”

“Right,” he manages, squeezing his eyes tight to drown out his smile. His corpse. Her eyes. Her smirk… “Right.”

Here. Not there. Here. Not there. Not in a bunker. Not in Blüd. Not in a field with his best friend’s corpse. Not in a courtyard with the kid he’d…

Fuck. So much for not thinking of it.

He tries to focus on Roy. On freckled arms, closing him in. It’s not something that makes him feel uncomfortable. It makes him feel safe. Protected. These arms are nothing like hers. Nothing like _his_. They’re muscled. Strong. They’re more tan than his, and less tan than hers. They have scars, bullet wounds. Some familiar, like the jagged line across Roy’s bicep from a wing-ding sharpened too much. Some not, like the still-healing cut along his forearm. Blood…blood…

Dick had made him bleed, hadn’t he? He’d made Roy bleed. He’d made Joker bleed. He’d made Bruce bleed. Bruce had made _him_ bleed…

But no, he’s fine. He’s okay. Roy’s here now. That has to be enough. That’s more than he had before. He can’t be a burden, because that’s when people leave. He can’t be hurt, because that’s when people hurt for him. He can’t be at risk, because that’s when people worry. Roy can’t worry, because Roy won’t stay. He can leave. No. He _will_ leave. He will leave, and he’ll feel bad about it because Roy is a good person. Roy is a good friend. The _best_ kind of friend. And so he’ll leave for Lian. So Dick doesn’t ruin him too.

Midas’s greed led to his ruin. He loved gold more than his family, more than _anything_ , so he lost _everything._ His touch. His existence. He doomed them by lingering, by _feeling_. One-touch, and he stole their life, made them cold metal. Meaningless, useless metal. Dick doesn’t turn people to gold. It’s more insidious than that. He burns them. He breaks them from the inside. He corrupts them. _Ruins_ them.

And Roy knows, at least, Dick thinks he knows. And if he doesn’t know, he’ll learn. He’ll see that loving Dick, caring for Dick, is only ruinous. Only destructive. He’ll see Catalina’s crimson lips on Dick’s, her hands branding him as the monster he is. He’ll see the trail of bodies, the echoing laughter cut out by bare hands, the monologues and threats cut off by one gunshot. He’ll see what he saw when Miriam’s cold brown eyes replaced Kory’s warm green ones. A slut. Someone not worth loving.

So Dick will smile. Dick will pretend. Dick will lie, so Roy can leave with a clear mind. He’ll delete Roy’s number, and next time, _next time_ , he won’t call. He can do the right thing for once. He can. He can lighten their load. He can be alone.

He’s not a monster on purpose. He doesn’t mean to hurt them. He can’t help it.

“We’re here,” Roy says from behind him, kicking the kickstand down and swinging his leg over the bike to get off. He offers a hand to Dick, who refuses it. He uses his hands to swing his legs in the air over his head, pushing off the bike and sticking the landing with a performer’s smile. Showtime, after all. Wouldn’t due to not be perfect, not with someone who might notice.

Roy claps him on the back with a tight grin, sliding the hand around Dick’s tense shoulders.

“Such a show-off,” he teases. Dick relaxes under his arm, grinning.

“It’s the circus in me.”

Roy rolls his eyes.

“Don’t I know it.”

The house Roy takes him to is a modest one floor, all neutral colors, and forgettable shrubbery. There’s nothing stand-out-ish about it, which Dick assumes is the point. What better place for a vigilante to hide in plain sight than a suburban neighborhood with an emphasis on normal? He wonders if Lian likes it here, if she has friends. He wonders if Oliver visits much, or if he and Roy still aren’t talking. Dinah wouldn’t let that sort of thing go unconfronted, but she might’ve been busy.

Before he can gather the courage to ask, the front door opens with a crash, screen-door shaking as it shudders back and forth.

“UNCLE!” Lian screams, launching herself off the porch and into Dick’s arms. He catches her with a grunt, stumbling back at the sheer force of her. A little ball of chaos, Lian is. He’d forgotten.

“Hi monkey,” he murmurs into the soft silk of her hair. “I missed you.”

“Missed you more, Uncle!”

Her arms are tight around his neck, tight enough that his breathing’s a bit more uncomfortable than normal. Her hair smells like mangos, not cinnamon, and her legs aren’t quite long enough to wrap around his waist, so the sensation isn’t too difficult to handle. He squeezes her back tight as he dares, tears blurring his vision and throat tight at the force of Lian’s love. He’d forgotten what this felt like. Damian’s been… He hasn’t let himself hug anyone in months. Maybe longer. Days and weeks and months tend to bleed together when he’s alone. It’s another part of the “Dick Grayson Disaster” he tries to keep hidden.

He breathes her in deep, thinking of how small she’d been the last time he’d held her in his arms, the last time she’d been this close. God, he’s missed her so _much_.

Donna steps into the porch light silently, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed and dry lips that let Dick know she’s anxious. Donna only bites her lips when she’s stressed, when she can’t stop herself from doing it and can’t quite calm herself down. Her lips are never the classic crimson color when he gets too close to the edge, when falling beats flying and ghosts beckon more than people. Her lips are bare, less goddess-like, and more human. He weakens her, he knows, but he’s too weak to set her free. He’s too human. Too pathetic.

As he sets Lian down gently and Roy picks her up and spins her around until she giggles, Donna throws herself at him in a blur of dark black curls and tears and curses. Her hands fist themselves in his too-thin shirt, tearing little holes he can feel as the cool wind hits his back.

“You bastard,” she murmurs into the crook of his neck, and he can hear and feel the tears more than he can see them. “You huge stupid jerk.”

“Ouch,” he mutters, rubbing her back. “Way to hurt my feelings Girl Wonder.”

She gives a watery laugh, squeezing him tight enough that his ribs groan in protest.

“You scared me. You didn’t call. You _haven’t_ called in months. You deserve it.”

“I’m sorry.”

He is. He’s sorry about a lot of things. He’s sorry that Donna cares. He’s sorry that he’s causing her pain even when he tries not to. He’s sorry that she had to—

“Hey now,” she says, grabbing his chin and making him look at her. “None of that little brain spiral I can see in your eyes. Not allowed.”

“Because you say so?”

Her smile is blinding, enough so to shoot a ray of warmth into Dick’s chest. He loves her. He loves her so much. She’s strong. Strong enough that Dick can almost feel okay when he’s around. Dick can almost be normal when he’s with her. He can almost pretend he’s the person she sees him as when she smiles at him like that.

“Now you get it.” Donna gives him one more squeeze before pulling away, taking her hand in his and tugging on it. “Let’s get inside, short-stack. I don’t need you to freeze before we get to have a big talk about our feelings sappy enough to send Batman running for the hills.”

Dick snorts.

“The word _emotion_ sends him running for the hills, Don. It’s not that big a feat.”

She smirks.

“Remind me to borrow a psychotherapy book from Dinah. I have a feeling my desire to stab Bruce is going to increase a lot tonight, and I’ll need a good outlet.”

“Harassing him?”

“Glad you understand.”

Lian’s bouncing up and down as he steps into the living room, holding on to Roy’s hand and excitedly whispering that “Uncle Nightwing is here! He’s really here!” over and over again. It’s almost enough to make him teary-eyed again, so he wipes at his eyes as casually as he can to not draw attention. Donna’s eyes are red when he looks at them, so he tries not to.

There’s a workbench in the corner, next to a desk covered in computer monitors. The bench is a bright, gleaming red that Dick recognizes from Roy’s old bench back at the tower. Littered with arrows and bits and pieces of new tech half-constructed or half-broken (it’s hard to tell with it in such disarray). Lian’s toys sit in drawers, neatly tucked away beneath the TV. It looks like a home. It’s warm, and inviting, and it feels…

Dick feels less cold, sitting here. A bit less numb. A bit less broken.

He feels… content. If content is the right word for it. He’s here. He doesn’t feel there. It’s almost concerning, and he must have zoned out because Lian squeezes his hand and pokes his nose until he focuses on her.

“Uncle Nightwing! I want to show you what I made for you!”

“Ohhhh no, baby girl. It is wayyyyyy past your bedtime. Uncle Nightwing will be here in the morning—” he shoots Dick a look at this, as if to say ‘ _don’t think I won’t tie you to a bed so you’re here for my daughter tomorrow’_ “—and then you can show him all the art you’ve made him. I’ll even call in sick for you at school, and stay home from work.”

“Really?” Lian questions eagerly, eyes sparkling as she rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet. Her eyes dart between Dick and Roy, narrowing in on Dick for a moment before focusing on her father.

“Really,” Roy promises, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Say good night to your Auntie and Uncle and go to bed, or I’ll make you go to school and show your Uncle the art without you.”

“No you won’t,” she says matter-of-factly. “That would make you a bad daddy.”

Roy rolls his eyes.

“Fine. I won’t. But I’ll eat the rest of your reward cake with Uncle tonight if you don’t.”

Lian narrows her eyes at Roy, but she must think the threat is a credible one because she bounds over to Donna and presses a quick kiss to her cheek, allowing the Amazon to hug her. Then, she runs over to Dick, tugging on his shirt until he crouches down to her height.

“Daddy forgives you, Uncle. Auntie Kori will too, if you apologize.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead, feeling that familiar ache at the thought of Kory.

“I’ll try, Lian. For my real best friend.”

She grins, giving him a quick hug before running down the hall in a flash of pigtails. Roy follows her with a sappy grin, snatching a story off the kitchen counter and shooting Dick a look that says exactly what will happen if he leaves before Roy gets back. Dick sends him a smile he hopes is reassuring, and Roy nods in acknowledgment.

“Uncle says _I’m_ his real best friend, daddy,” Dick hears before Lian’s bedroom door shuts, and Donna laughs.

“It’s been a while since people have fought over that title. Almost forgot Lian is so protective of it.”

Dick bumps her shoulder with his.

“Everyone knows you and Wally take turns carrying that burden,” he jokes, tone light, but Donna sees through it.

“You are _not_ a burden, Dick. The furthest thing from it.”

Dick snorts, which makes Donna glare at him.

“I mean it,” she says. “We _love_ you. Taking care of you, being there for you, it’s not a _burden_. It’s called being a friend. Being a _family_. We’re _always_ going to be there for you, stupid, whether you like it or not. I don’t care what your pretty little brain is telling you, I am telling you the truth.”

He gives her a sad little smile.

“You shouldn’t, Don. I can’t lose you again.”

She rests her head on his shoulder, arm wrapped tight around his.

“Do you think it was easy for me when you died? Do you think I was anywhere close to okay, knowing you’d died and I wasn’t there to save you?”

“There was nothing you could’ve done,” Dick says. “B was right there and he couldn’t—” _he couldn’t save me. No one could. I was a lost cause, reckless. I let them catch me. Let them torture me. Let them break me._

Donna rolls her eyes, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“I’d kill for you,” she murmurs. “I would’ve done whatever I had to if it meant you didn’t have to suffer.”

“Don—”

“I know you don’t like killing, so I won’t, but I would have killed Luthor before letting him…” _kill you_.

Dick flinches, and of course, Donna notices. She’s always known him best.

“It…” the look of understanding blooming in Donna’s eyes sends something like panic spiraling in his brain, something like shame as she looks at him, _really_ looks at him, mouth cupped by her free-hand, clinging to him tighter than before. “It doesn’t matter.”

Her lips curve into a frown.

“What do you—”

“I fucked up, Girl Wonder. I was dead before Luthor…”

 _Pill. Hands. Clawing on his throat. Over his mouth. Over his body. Restrained. Warm hips, cold eyes, cold claws. Trapped. Alone. Dead. Dying. Can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t fucking **breathe**_ …

“I was dead before he…” he chokes on the word, asphyxiates on it maybe. Mouth dry, tongue leaden, heart pounding in his ears, brain pulsating with it, like a pan full of jiffy pop held too long over a fire. His lungs might as well be on fire for all the good they’re doing him, and Donna’s eyes are all that keep him from having a full out breakdown, all that keep him from noticing the way reality dissipates around the edges, curling like smoke around fragments of _here_ and _there_ and _nowhere_ and _everywhere_.

Jesus Christ, he’s so fucked up. But he can’t let anyone else see it, can’t risk them leaving him.

_Cold. Hollow. Alone._

_“Querido, don’t you know I’m the only one who can love you truly?”_

Not real. Not real. Not real.

‘ _Catalina’s dead, stupid brain. She’s dead dead dead, like you should be. Like you were. But you weren’t, were you? Power nap without the grave dirt, resurrected like Lazarus with a shot of adrenaline and a sleeping pill you choke choke choke on.’_

Donna slips a steady hand under his shirt, fingers resting over his thundering heart. It’s real. It’s warm. It’s not a cold dream, a distant ghost determinately haunting him. There’s no rain, only candles and soft eyes, soft hair. She looks at him like she knows, and he rests his head in the junction of her neck and shoulder and shakes. Vanilla and sugar and figs and the ocean breeze. No cinnamon, no decay.

He chokes on the thought, dry hiccups escaping him in bursts as he slumps into her arms, melts into the sympathetic warmth, desperate and lonely and hopelessly broken despite his best efforts.

“ _Do they know you, truly? Do they see you? Do they care?”_

Spoken by green eyes not there, wrong green eyes that are so cold on someone so warm. A cold Mirage wearing Kori’s warmth like a too-tight coat, a snake in a coat of sheepskin.

Dick hadn’t thought he would have any tears left, any _anything_ left when he’d drained it away into a fiery pit he used to call home, but he still finds salt to stain Donna’s skin with. He still manages to feel that hollow ache, eating at his heart and his gut. Trauma still follows him, draws him in, like a portable black hole. Trauma’s a lot like a black hole, he thinks, because there’s a point of no return despite the inevitability in its pull, and the constant energy spent fighting it is exhausting, draining. There’s a point where you wonder if there’s any point in fighting anymore.

Dick’s so tired.

Beyond tired.

He needs a new word for what he feels before _tired_ loses all meaning.

“I didn’t die,” Dick manages, swallowing down the dry lump in his throat, speaking past the confessions tying a noose around his useless tongue, the sins unspoken and unknown. “I just…”

“You just?”

Dick smothers a small, pathetic little laugh in her shoulder, feeling the sting of more tears build in his eyes, blurring her from sight.

“He stopped my heart to save people, and I woke up to Bruce hugging me—” _hugs and fists and snarls and condemnation and salvation and pain pain pain, you broke like a toy when you’re my soldier, and my soldiers aren’t supposed to break, Dick. You know that, my swiss-army knife. You aren’t allowed to rest, not when I need you._ “—it wasn’t so bad. Just…a nap.”

“Just a nap?” she echoes, blue eyes dim and narrowed. She holds him a bit tighter, pressing a kiss to his hair. “I know you, honey, and this _hurt_ you. Anything that causes you this much pain is not _just_ anything. How many times do I have to tell you that I am _here for you_? I’d follow you to Hell if I had to. I’d do just about anything for you, and I know you’d do the same. You’re family, Dick.”

“Everything hurts, Don. I don’t think I know how _not_ to hurt anymore.”

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to keep you then. Teach you what not-hurting involves. And before you say a _goddamned word_ , Richard Grayson, you aren’t a burden. If you so much as _think_ it, I will actually drag you to Themyscira and not let you leave.”

Dick smiles against her, arms carefully loose as he returns her firm embrace.

“Would Hippolyta even let you?”

“For you? Yes. Besides, like she can stop me.”

“Older, smarter, prettier?” he questions with a smile that feels more real than any he’s offered in a long time.

She grins back, pressing another kiss into his hair, fingers running through the strands carefully, scrape of fingernails on his scalp a pleasant sensation.

“You know the drill. Not even Batman can stop me from kicking his ass, and as much as I love my sisters, they’re no Diana or Bruce.”

“I doubt anyone can stop Donna Troy from doing anything she doesn’t want to,” Roy interjects with a chuckle from behind them, wrapping an arm around each of their shoulders until the three of them are smushed so tight together it should hurt. “So what are you lovely ladies talking about?”

It doesn’t hurt though, it feels good. Warm. Real. Perfect.

Three parts of a whole.

Family. The only thing missing is Wally and Garth, but Donna and Roy have always been more than enough.

“How out of your league we are, of course,” Donna says airily, smacking Roy’s shoulder lightly with a familiarity Dick finds comforting. Maybe everything isn’t broken, if Donna and Roy are the same as ever.

“Honestly Harper, you’ve got no game and your trucker hat is a real turn off. You’re starting to look desperate.”

Roy rolls his eyes, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

“Go fuck yourself, Troy.”

“Why do that when I can get someone to do it for me?”

The way she bats her eyelashes is so over-exaggerated that it rips a laugh out of Dick’s mouth, one he hadn’t even felt bubbling in his throat.

Donna looks pleased with it, lighting up like a firework until her cheeks dimple, and Roy looks relieved. Calm. Happy. They both look so _happy_. With him. Not dead. Not angry. _Happy_.

People haven’t really been happy to see him in a while. Even before Spyral, he hadn’t really been close to anyone anymore. Always alone, always distant. A lot of that distance was his fault. After he lost Bruce, he pushed everyone away to be what Gotham needed. After he lost Damian, he pushed away the few people that remained. It’s a wonder he has any friends left, after all that.

“God I fucking missed you,” Roy breathes, chin sharp and comforting on Dick’s shoulder. Roy drapes himself onto them, tightening his embrace, half on Donna half on Dick. Dick doubts it’s comfortable, but Roy’s always been as tactile as any Titan.

Prolonged exposure to him during his Robin years would do that to a person (unless you’re Bruce).

Dick lets out a soul-deep sigh, one he hadn’t even known he was holding in. It feels like he’s unloading some of that weight, and the world seems a bit clearer around the edges, tendrils of smoke receding into the picturesque grounded domesticity of this moment.

He knows there are a lot of things left to be said, a lot of wrongs he needs to right for Roy (especially when he’s still half-terrified Roy will leave him alone again), but for now, this is perfect. This is enough.

He feels…

Here, not there. And he doesn’t have to repeat the words to feel the truth seep in him, down to the marrow.

“I missed you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> On a scale of 1-10 how would you rate your experience in angst today? Lol jk.  
> Thoughts?


End file.
